


The Crown Resurrected

by HermineKurotowa



Category: CW Network RPF, Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Slavery, Hurt Jensen, Implied/Referenced Castration, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-08
Updated: 2015-06-08
Packaged: 2018-04-03 11:38:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4099600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HermineKurotowa/pseuds/HermineKurotowa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jared and Jensen are both noble princes. But while Jared is the successful conqueror, Jensen is mistaken for a bed slave. He is stripped of his past and thrown into a present full of pain and hurt. And his future will only bear death and destruction.</p><p>Jared is drawn to the mysterious man in his bedroom. He could use him, but doesn't want to; he wants to love him, but dares not to touch him. He tries to save his life, but instead Jared hurts him worse than ever. Maybe, though - maybe together they can heal each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Crown Resurrected

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the spn_j2_bigbang. There were plenty of desperation, cussing, and tearing hair out involved, but I had incredible fun. Thank you, wendy, for running this challenge tirelessly. Also thank you to my beta jj1564 who gave me new words and made the story pretty, and to my alphas junkerin and somersault_j for cheerleading and being awesome. All remaining mistakes are my own, and I'm going to keep them.
> 
> The wonderful art was created by the talented dulcetine; go [here ](http://dulcetine.livejournal.com/190828.html)to leave her some love. It was great working with her, and I feel incredibly lucky that she chose my fic. ♥
> 
> This is a men's tale. If you want to read about strong female characters, this is not your story. It is set in a medieval fantasy world where - like in our medieval times - free women are expected to be slaves without a collar. But maybe, when our noble princes set free the slaves, they will free the women after.

 

 

**Chapter 1**

Villads Ackles is a scary man on his good days. When he is furious, he's terrifying.

“You have thirty minutes to pack your things!” he roars.

“Lordmaster, please-”

“You come or you're dead, it's simple as that! Pack your things!”

“No, Father!”

He stops shoving papers into a bag. “What did you say?”

“I said no,” his son's voice doesn't waver; his eyes, though, betray his fear. “Lordmaster, we should not run, we can stop this war-”

“Enough! We won't negotiate with these cretins. I said we pull back to the mountains, so pack your things!”

“No.”

“What?!”

“I'll stay; I'll try to stop this insanity.”

“If you don't pack your fucking things, I'll remove your name from the List!”

Villads Ackles is seething with anger at his youngest son's disobedience. His hand grips the bullwhip tight that's attached to his belt. He's turning to the young man, the papers forgotten.

“I'm staying. I'm sorry, Lordmaster, but if I need to let you down to stop the war, I'll do it.”

He feels like he is going to explode any moment now. He always knew that his youngest child was a good-for-nothing, a wuss and a weakling, but he never thought him to be a traitor.

There is the tiniest pang of regret in his chest; nevertheless he does what has to be done. Villads Ackles, the Lordmaster of the Seal, always knows when to smother scruples.

“From this moment, you're disowned,” he says. “Your name will be removed from the List of Ancestors, and then it will be forgotten.”

“Lordmaster... please...”

“You're nameless!”

“Father...”

“I'm the Lordmaster of the Seal, and disowning you is still too good for you!”

Suddenly, the bullwhip is in his hands, and he does what he does best; he puts the traitor in his place.

~~~~~~~~~~

Whoever in his right mind named a castle _Steadfast_? Probably the same person that chose the hideous furnishings.

Sprawling in the throne-like chair in the reception hall, Jared warily eyes the domestics cowering in front of him, huddling on the cool stone floor. They are what you expect in a big home like this one, servants, waiting maids, cooks, stable boys. And slaves, of course.

The free men and women are crying, sobbing, or scowling at Jared's soldiers lining the room's walls, their swords drawn. The slaves, however, kneel silently and seemingly unaffected, their heads bowed, their backs straight.

The wine in his goblet is dark and rich, the best wine in Ackles' cellar. Jared would enjoy it more without so many eyes full of fear and hate staring at him.

“Penikett,” he says.

“Your Royal Highness?”

“These are all attendants of Steadfast castle?”

“No, Highness. General Beaver detained another twenty servants in the bath house, and we're still yanking footmen out of the cellars.”

“How big is the bath house?”

“It's suitable, Highness.”

“All right. Lock up anybody who fights back in the oubliette, the rest in the stables where it's warm. The girls and women are off-limits. Then bring the wounded to the bath house and have them treated. After, the baths are open to everybody.”

Taking a sip of wine, Jared thinks.

“I need numbers. Casualties, wounded – both sides. Prisoners. Stocks to hand. And – I want the general to debrief as soon as possible. I want to know where the Lordmaster and his family hide, and I want them found. Go!”

“Your Highness.” Penikett bows low and hurries away, executing his orders.

Soon, the captive domestics are herded away, and Jared remains sprawled in the chair, sipping wine and tracing the carved wolves. It's an uncomfortable posture, but he needs to maintain an air of superiority with his casual behavior.

Occupying the castle was too easy. Ackles lost the last of his allies when he took Lord Omundsen's son and little grandson as hostages to make sure he would stay loyal. Instead, Omundsen remained neutral, withholding his support, at the Crown's request. The young man and the boy are already heading home, wanting to leave as soon as possible.

Jared snorts derisively. As Lordmaster of the Seal, Ackles could have bribed a lot of Great Lords to follow him into revolution and coup d'état, but he chose coercion and force. And when the Crown granted amnesty to his reluctant allies, he lost everything – half his army, his exalted position, his precious home. Maybe he even lost his oldest son, Ragnar, on the battlefield; Jared still waits for confirmation of the rumor.

He needs to get a hold on Ackles and his family. The daughter is married off to a Count Chau, living abroad now, but there are still the middle and the youngest sons with their wives and children, and a mother-in-law. The wife, Great Lady Hilda, died more than ten years ago. If there are still other members of the family in the castle, it is irrelevant; Jared needs the Lordmaster and his sons above all. He may be Designated Crown, but he has to prove to his father that there is more to him than just being the heir. He needs to show his true worth.

General Beaver's entry pulls Jared out of his thoughts.

The man is gray-bearded, but still able to put up a fight. Dropping down on one knee, though, takes quite some time. He's using the sword as support, both hands folded on the pommel; apparently, he got hurt during the castle's storming.

“General,” Jared greets the old man, sitting straight. He doesn't want him to use the official salutation when he is in pain, but to excuse him would be understood as an insult.

“Your Royal Highness,” the general greets back. “All soldiers and guards surrendered. The officers are detained in the south tower. We don't have exact numbers yet, but I guess that we have about two hundred wounded and two or three dozen dead.

Jared nods in appreciation. He was afraid there would be more. “And Ackles?”

“I'm sorry, Your Royal Highness. We have no lead on his whereabouts. Presumably, he fled, taking his family with him.”

“What a nuisance!”

“However, we found a bed slave in the Lordmaster's rooms. I think he could tell us the one or other.”

~~~~~~~~~~

The poor guy has been severely whipped. There are bloody welts all over his back, his naked body smeared with blood. It is not a pretty sight.

He is unconscious, bound to the big four-poster bed with a leash attached to a leather collar.

“Where are the physicians?” Jared asks.

“They're in the bath house, your Highness. They take care of the wounded, together with the barber surgeons.”

“Oh yes, of course.”

“Though this slave needs medical treatment as soon as possible, his wounds are not life threatening; he'll survive until a physician can take care of him.”

“Armstrong. I want my personal physician to treat him. If he is Ackles' bed slave, he'll know something.”

“Hmm. I don't think he'll be able to tell your Highness much.”

“General?”

“Do you see the skin at his throat, under the collar?” Beaver lifts the leather with a finger. The skin he is referring to is flawless. “Either he was bought only recently, or he usually didn't wear a collar. As a pampered pet, he won't know a lot of the goings-on outside of the bed chamber. And I don't think Ackles would leave a slave behind that could reveal secrets.”

“Maybe he believed him dead. Well, I don't care. He's our only chance to find Ackles. Spare him the pain until Armstrong arrives, give him some drugs.”

“As you wish.”

“Alright. I'll be in Ackles' study. It's through that door, isn't it?”

“Yes, your Highness. It's the adjoining room.”

“I tell you, general, this place is a maze. I'll have Penikett draw a map.”

A small smile appears on the general's lips. “A map would be pretty helpful, indeed.”

“Alright, I'll tell him. Please send him to me, preferably with a tray of food.”

While the general is bowing, Jared walks into the adjoining study. It looks more like a library with book shelves from the floor to the ceiling. There is also a cabinet full of plans and maps, but of course, there is no layout plan in its drawers.

On the desk he finds a chaos of papers, writing utensils, and socks, everything dripping with ink. Unfortunately, the papers are completely ruined; he won't be able to use them.

There is nothing he can do until the mess is cleaned up, so Jared decides to just think.

Looking out of the glass doors onto the courtyard where there is bustling activity, his thoughts are drawn towards the bed slave in the adjoining room.

Jared can't stand slavery. He can't abolish it, but he already made his father to pass a law against excessive corporal punishment. Unfortunately, there are still a few Great Lords who don't approve, including Ackles.

The poor guy looks like he is as old as Jared, maybe only a few years older. He is handsome; no wonder Ackles took him as a bed slave. Jared never heard about such proclivities of the proud Lordmaster of the Seal, but what does he know.

Obviously, he doesn't know enough. He doesn't know where Ackles is, where his sons are. He doesn't know if they lay dead on the battlefield. He doesn't even know how they look. He only met the oldest one once, never the other two, and only learned about the girl a few years back.

Ackles is an old bastard.

~~~~~~~~~~

Tahmoh has seen his fair share of abused slaves. Thank the Crocodilians, they're getting less in the capital city due to the new laws. But this poor guy... He has only a few scars, not more than any random citizen, but that whipping was brutal. It was meant to kill the slave. Even if it wasn't successful, it will take some time to recover, which they don't have. They need to know where the fugitives are, the prince made it very clear.

“How is he?” Tahmoh asks the physician. Armstrong is the prince's personal physician, the best one in the palace, but he is no faith healer.

Only glancing up from bandaging wounds and welts, the physician says, “He'll live, the Crocodilians won't feast on him. He's young and strong, he'll be up and about soon.”

“When do you think can we question him?”

“I'd like him to have a few day's rest but of course that's not possible, I know. He should wake up towards evening. If he's not feverish, you can question him.”

Before Tahmoh can ask more questions, the prince enters the room. He stops in front of the bed of blankets the hurt slave rests on, looking down on the unconscious man.

“How is he?” he asks, scowling.

Armstrong sighs. “He'll be up and about soon. And yes, you can question him this evening if needs must, on condition that he's not feverish.” As an afterthought, he adds, “Your Highness.”

Tahmoh suppresses a grin. He knows about the prince's relationship with his physician who is like a second father to the young man.

“Good. That's good. How about my soldiers, Penikett?”

Tahmoh stands at attention, even though the prince's concentration is focused on the slave.

“We have two hundred twelve wounded, most of them with minor injuries, thank the Crocodilians. Only a few won't survive the night. Then there are seventy-eight injured enemy soldiers that we also put up in the bath house. The Lordmaster may betray the Crown, but he knows how to take a proper bath; I've never seen such a spacious bath house.”

“So they're accommodated and cared for?”

“Yes, Your Highness. We found records about stocks and supplies, my men will be finished looking through them soon.”

“Alright. I have a lot of things to do. Have him interrogated as soon as he's awake. I want results after dinner.”

The prince turns, leaving the room, his cloak billowing.

~~~~~~~~~~

Seriously, when the world is pain, why should he wake up?

He tries to stay in the warm, blessed cocoon of oblivion, but the Wolf's hungry teeth are gnawing at his back.

The rustle of clothes and clanging of metal makes him open his eyes, and first, he can't understand what he sees.

He is lying in a bed. Bloody Teeth, it's the Lordmaster's bed in the Lordmaster's room, and there are three men standing in front of him, their faces stern. The old warrior cradles his helmet in his arm, his other hand resting on his sword; what he lacks in head hair, he tries to compensate with a beard. The other older man with dark, unruly hair is not a warrior, the look in his eyes almost warm; and the youngest guy is tall with bright, piercing eyes.

They wear armors and crests of the Padalecks, a lizard or something like that.

_Bloody Teeth._

He scrambles backwards, trying to get away, until his back, wrapped in bandages, hits the headboard, and the pain is sharp, too sharp, and he doubles over, moaning. Burying his face into the pillows, he's riding the wave of pain.

There's a hand on his shoulder, a soft voice telling him to calm down. He is flinching reflexively, trying to escape, but he is tangled in the sheets, and suddenly, there is no bed beneath him, and something is yanking painfully at his throat, cutting off his air supply. Again, there is pain all over his body when his back hits the soft carpet.

Finally, he can see clearly again, though he has still trouble drawing breaths. Lifting a hand, he touches his neck, the tips of his fingers brushing the collar around his neck.

That's impossible! He is a free man, the Lordmaster's son. The Wolf's bloody teeth, what did these men do to him?

“Calm down,” the youngest man says, “we won't hurt you.”

He stares, trying to wrap his head around what happened. He can't remember...

“What's your name, slave?” The old warrior asks gruffly, but not unkindly.

He keeps on staring. They think he is a slave, so they didn't collar him, and they don't know his name, so they probably don't know who he is.

He should tell them his name, his status, clear up the misunderstanding.

“Do you know the whereabouts of your master Ackles?”

It's the tightening of the warrior's fingers on the sword pommel that makes him come to a decision: he won't betray anything. He wanted to negotiate peace with these people, but all they want is his father's head on a pike. He would rather die than betray his family.

~~~~~~~~~~

The accounting records are a mess.

Jared is not an accountant, but he can see that the Lordmaster is broke. The accountant checking the books is looking pretty much frustrated.

Presumably, Ackles' dire finances are a reason for his conspiracy against the Crown, apart from his burning ambition.

Morosely throwing his pencil onto the desk, Jared sighs. There is so much he needs to consider. He is glad that Penikett is a reliable aide and adviser; he is also head of the royal guard, and Jared really trusts him with his life.

The good news is that the castle is big enough to accommodate the officers and higher ranks, and the soldiers took up quarters in the surrounding town. That is one headache less to worry about; content soldiers don't plunder, and non-scared townsfolk are more willing to cooperate. This way, Jared got to the hearty breakfast he devoured not so long ago.

The bad news is that the damned slave doesn't talk. He didn't open his mouth during the interrogation, so now he is being tortured.

Jared is not proud of himself. Torturing a hurt and frightened slave is not a thing he ever wanted to order. But he needs all the information the man can provide. He only prays that it's worth it.

Sick of all the paperwork, Jared stands, leaving the study. Flanked by two guards, he only gets lost once on his way to the torture chamber. Unsurprisingly, there is this kind of room in Steadfast castle, and it seems to be well used.

Pushing open the sturdy door, Jared calls, “Penikett! What did he say?”

Bowing, the head of his guard replies, “Your Royal Highness. I'm sorry to say that the only thing he uttered was _May the Wolf devour you with blunt teeth_. And a few curses.”

“What does that mean?”

“I think it could be translated as _May the Crocodilians drop a huge pile onto your head_.”

“Penikett!”

“Your Highness. I'm afraid this slave is stubbornly loyal. I assume he should be happy to be rid of his brutal master, but he's still loyal. He won't talk.”

“'Dils!” Rubbing his face, Jared stares down at the slave who is lying bruised and exhausted at his feet. His hair is wet, his eyes red-rimmed due to lack of oxygen; his bandages are dirty and bloody where the welts re-opened. He is breathing fast and shallow, his eyes mere slits, but there is still a spark of something, maybe defiance.

“Alright. Clean him; I want him and Armstrong in my room in thirty minutes.”

Jared's room is Ackles' former room. He doesn't like it, there are too many wall hangings embroidered with too many wolves eating people and too many bloody battles. However, it is imperative to showcase the Designated Crown's power so he has to stay there. The bed is quite comfortable, though.

Two guards are dragging the slave into the room, heaving him onto the bed and tying his arms to the headboard. Penikett takes up position beside him.

The poor guy is almost out of it, and Jared feels a hard pang of conscience. He doesn't want to do it, but there's no other way.

Armstrong is angry. “How could you order to torture the poor man! I don't patch up people just so you can break them once more. Your Stupid Highness.”

“I'm sorry, okay? There was no other way to make him talk. I ordered though not to leave any lasting marks.”

“That's a feather in your cap.” The physician glares at Jared, making him squirm.

“No, it didn't work. That's why I want you to use snake bite.”

Surprised, Armstrong takes a deep breath. “Snake bite? You know how hard it is to dose him correctly in his condition? And what happens if I overdose him?”

“I know. But I'm trying to save his life here. If I can't make him talk, the Crown will execute him as the Lordmaster's substitute.” And he needs all the information the slave can provide.

Armstrong still glares at him, then says, “I'm acting under protest.”

“Acknowledged.” Jared nods grimly.

Rummaging in his bag, the physician takes out a little bottle. Whispering reassuringly, he settles on the bed besides the bound man who is glowering pretty menacingly, Jared thinks. Armstrong needs to hook his fingers between the slave's tightly clenched jaws to open his mouth, but he does so without force.

Jared acknowledges that the slave knows to pick his fights; he doesn't flinch, it is no use anyway. His tethered hands are clenching and unclenching, though, while Armstrong counts drops of snake bite into his mouth.

It is only a few minutes until the drug takes hold. The slave is struggling for breath and convulsing, his fists clenched so tightly his fingernails are leaving bloody marks on his palms. Then he collapses, going limp, showing no sign of life, just the hardly perceivable rising and lowering of his chest.

Penikett starts moving, but Jared stops him with a wave of his hand.

“What's your name, slave?”

There is a groan emanating from the man, struggling fruitlessly against the drug. “Not.. a... slave,” he says, his voice deep and gravelly, hitting Jared right into his gut. Well, a little bit further to the south.

“But you wear a collar.”

Moss-green eyes, dull or maybe hooded, are directed at Jared, but there is still some kind of defiance swirling in their depths.

“Not... a slave. I was born... free.”

A rarely experienced feeling is blossoming in Jared's chest: compassion. He remembers the knife, the dangerously sharp and glistening knife. He remembers a young boy's fear and despair.

Squashing the memories, he continues.

“What's your name?”

“I have... no name. It was removed from the List.”

Jared looks questioningly at Tahmoh who replies, “Removing a name from the List of Ancestors means disownment, repudiation. The people in question are nameless and no longer considered as persons.”

Rubbing his chin, Jared sighs. “I don't want to call you slave. What did your mother call you?”

“Peaches.”

“Peaches? Great! Now that's a name for a grown-up man,” Jared groans. “Well... Peaches. Do you know where the Lordmaster of the Seal is?”

“No.”

“'Dils! Let's phrase it differently. Do you know where Villads Ackles is headed?”

“Yes.”

Jared waits, but the slave remains silent. Obviously, he has to worm every little bit of information out of him.

“What's his designation?”

“White Mountain chalet.” The answer is given through grit teeth.

“Where is it?”

“White Mountain.”

“I know that! Tell me the exact location!”

“Head of river Numeras.”

With a silent order from Jared, Penikett is already leaving the room, taking the guards with him. Another sign, and the physician makes sure that the slave isn't hurt more than necessary.

Then Jared is alone with the man. Stroking a hand over short, soft hair, he rubs his thump over a frowning brow. “You did well,” he praises. “Sleep now.”

He can see that the slave wants to defy him, but the drug leaves no real choice, and the stress and pain of the past day finally catch up with him. Closing his eyes, his body goes limp; no more glowering, or frowning, or gritting teeth, no more strong hands clenched into fists.

Jared is running a finger over the bandages on Peaches' chest and the smooth skin of his stomach, stopping just short of the waistband of his linen pants.

No, he won't go there, as tempting as it may be. He knows now that his past bedfellows may not have been as willing as he thought at the time; after all, how do you reject the Designated Crown? He vowed to himself to never force someone into his bed, and not even for this tasty morsel will he break his vow and lose all self-respect.

Restraining himself is hard. This person is everything he ever wanted in a man; a mind of his own, defiant, gorgeous, a body like caramel, hard and sweet. And yet, seeing him bound and helpless did something to Jared he hadn't known before.

He can't have the slave because he can't say no to his master. He can't manumit him because he is the Ackles' slave and may be able to provide more information about his former master. Unfortunately, it may be necessary to break the man in order to obtain it.

That would be something Jared would be reluctant to do.

 

 

**Chapter 2**

As the youngest child of the Lordmaster of the Seal, Jensen could have everything he wished for.

On the other hand, life as a family member of Villads Ackles never was easy. His older brothers, Ragnar and Eric, lived up to the high expectations that their father cherished. His sister Yngvild, never expected to be anything other than a wife; she married a kind count and lives now overseas, so she is safe from their father.

Jensen, though. Jensen is the black sheep in his father's sight. He is a dreamer, a starry-eyed idealist, not the murderous soldier Villads Ackles wants him to be.

As long as his mother lived, he was able to be a happy boy. After her death, his father tried to beat her stories and hugs out of him, but failed. In a last attempt to get rid of the failure, he erased his son's name and put a collar around his neck.

Now Jensen is a slave with a new name.

Peaches.

He hates the man who gave him the drug, and the man who ordered him, and the drug that made him tell his most precious secret.

It was only ever his mother who called him that, never when someone could hear, and she said this one word with so much love and affection that he never could forget. And now this tyrant wrenched it from him violently.

If he could, he would kill the tall man with his bare hands. Unfortunately, he is tied to a little alcove close beside the canopy bed in his father's room with a leash, his hands bound. His wrists are already rubbed sore as he tried unsuccessfully to get free.

He doesn't know who the tall man is, presumably a general, or another high-ranking officer of the Padaleck army, or maybe a member of the royal family, but it is not important.

Villads Ackles is not a great father, or even a great human being, but he is an extraordinary politician, leading the realm to unforeseen heights. Jensen won't tolerate the defilement of his father's rooms and achievements.

It is no wonder that a people worshipping scaly lizards spawned tyrants and dictators, leaders who violate humans in the worst possible way. He was lucky that the tall man only was interested in knowing about his father. He can't imagine what else he could have been forced to do, or what the tall man could have done to him.

He shudders at the thought.

So he sits in his little alcove, waiting for something to happen, brooding. And getting hungry.

When he woke up midway through the morning, tied and bound, there was a pitcher of water standing beside him. That was all he took in the whole day, first drinking off the pitcher, then charging it with pee.

It is near dark, and Jensen is almost asleep when he hears the door being opened and closed.

Getting up to his feet is painful, his body still hurts, and he thinks he is running a fever. He can't see who entered the room, but the person is shuffling around. They throw a sword and belt on a lounge chair, followed by a cloak and velvet coat, walking slowly around the canopy bed. They come in sight, fumbling around with their shirt.

It is the tall man.

 _Bloody teeth_.

Stunned, the man stops dead. “'Dils,” he says, then grabs the knife in his boot, leaping at Jensen.

Bracing himself for the attack, Jensen raises his arms, but instead of thrusting, the man is cutting at Jensen's bonds.

“Oh 'Dils, I'm so sorry,” he says. “I was so busy the whole day, I completely forgot about you. Did you eat? 'Dils, you didn't eat!” Fussing over Jensen's sore wrists, he keeps talking. “This is standard with new slaves in my bedroom, though I never had one before. And I didn't want you to stay here all day all alone, but as I said, I was so busy, I forgot. I'm so sorry.”

The tall man reaches for a bell pull, never averting his eyes from Jensen's hands and wrists, and all Jensen can think is how big and warm these hands are. His mind is buzzing, and he can't understand half of what is said. This guy just raped his mind in cold blood, and now he is acting like a bleeding heart.

Jensen's knees almost buckle; he desperately needs some food, and maybe some willow bark brew against the fever. Supporting him, the tall man leads him to the lounge chair, lowering him onto the soft cushion.

The sword is only a few inches away, half-hidden by the garments.

Slowly, Jensen's hand is creeping towards the weapon while his other one is still held between paw-like hands, their owner mumbling nonsense he can't follow.

A Padaleck adjutant opens the door, so Jensen withdraws his hand. _Bloody teeth_.

“Your-”

“Bring food. And wine. And I want Armstrong to check this slave over. Hurry up!”

“Of course,” the adjutant says, closing the door.

Picking up the garments along with the sword and belt, the tall man puts them into a chest., then pushes an occasional table Jensen's father used to put his feet up in front of the lounge chair.

“Don't get up,” he says, “they'll bring some food soon. The cook is great, but I think you know that.”

Yes, he knows. Jensen is glad that the cook, Briana, is still alive. She is one of the few friends he has – had. He has no friends now.

A slave doesn't have friends, and he is a slave now.

~~~~~~~~~~

The day was awful.

Jared had to decide the fate of the highest ranking officers his men took captive. The law says death for the generals and enslavement for their families.

Jared can accept the fact that he has to sentence three men to death, after all it will be quick, but enslaving innocent family members... that is something he doesn't want to do. So he wrestled the whole afternoon with General Beaver, trying to spare the poor women and children a fate worse than death. At least he succeeded in obtaining adjournment until Penikett's return.

But while attempting to save three families from enslavement, he completely forgot about the one slave already in his care.

Armstrong diagnosed a fever, but was pleased with his general health, scowling at Jared who shrugged a shoulder. He had given orders not to leave permanent damage on the rack, so the slave is left with bruises and scratches; he should be glad that his new master didn't order another whipping.

Jared is watching Peaches eating, first hesitantly, then enthusiastically scooping stew into his mouth.

He really is handsome, with subtle fingers, bright eyes, and a strong jaw. Jared can imagine that he was expensive. Maybe it is possible to manumit him, after Ackles was captured.

Still pondering Peaches' fingers, Jared raises his eyes and sees his counterpart frozen in fear, eyes bulging. He reacts without delay, at the same time unsheathing his dagger and launching himself out of his chair. He can feel the draft where a blade rips his shirt sleeve, his own blade sinking into warm flesh without much resistance.

The intruder is a young man, almost a boy, lying on the floor, choking on his blood. His brown eyes are looking daggers at Peaches who is standing stiff and trembling. When he speaks, his voice is rough.

“The Wolf will tear you limb from limb, traitor.”

Tearing open the door, Jared alerts the guards standing there, who are completely flustered. One leaves to inform Massee, the second-in-command, the other one hurrying ahead into the room to give first aid.

The slave is kneeling besides the injured youth. There are tears streaking down his pallid face, his shaking fingers are pressing a bunched up cloth onto his chest, but Jared can see that it is no use, there is already the pale face of death shining under the skin.

The slave is pushed aside by the guard trying to staunch the flow of blood, wiping his eyes with blood-smeared hands, and suddenly, Massee has gripped his throat with a hand, pushing him against the wall.

“What did you do, you filthy bug?” Massee asks through grit teeth, his body barely containing his anger.

“Massee!” Jared snaps. “Let him go! He's not involved!”

The officer obeys, dropping the slave to the ground. He then walks to the guard, inquiring about the unlucky assassin. His answer is a shake with the head in the negative.

Turning a blind eye on his men, Jared focuses on Peaches, kneeling beside him.

“It's okay. No one will hurt you. Do you know him?” he says, glancing to the dead youth.

Peaches nods hesitantly, answering with a small and rough voice. “He's... he was a stable boy. He was a... a friend.”

Jared sighs. “I'm sorry, but he tried to kill me, and I just reacted. Now listen,” he continues, his voice steady, “are there any secret passages in this room?”

Big, wet eyes are looking at him, and Jared says, “Answer me; I won't hesitate to drug you again if you don't open your mouth.”

The answer is given reluctantly. “I-I don't know of secret passages. I don't think there are any in this part of the castle. My... the Lordmaster wouldn't want to make himself vulnerable in his own rooms.”

“Good. That's good. Now let's take care of this mess.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Someone dared to attempt assassinating his prince, and Massee is seething. This rotten piece of meat is lucky to be dead because second-in-command Michael Massee would rip him to shreds if he was still alive. And the stinking slave should be executed on the spot, as he is surely involved. Unfortunately, he can't do a thing as long as his prince prohibits him from skinning the bug alive.

His best men are searching the prince's rooms; they can't find any secret passages or closets which is pretty much frustrating. He glares at the servants cleaning the plank floor, pondering whether they could be involved too.

His prince only has eyes for the slave, and that is something Massee can't understand. He is just a bug. Admittedly, he is a handsome man which makes him a pretty bug, but a bug nevertheless.

Finally, Qualls finds the assassin's way in - the window.

Massee is impressed. The prince's rooms are high above the ground, climbing the facade needs some balls which means a repeat is not to be expected. In addition to the guards in front of the doors, he'll station a guard under the windows with orders to keep an eye on the external facade.

~~~~~~~~~~

Finally, they are alone. It's rather late, and Jensen is dead on his feet. And then he remembers why it is not a good idea being alone with the tall man and straightens himself bolt upright. He still doesn't know who he is, though he assumes he must be royalty as the guards called him 'Highness'.

The tall man is running his hands through his long hair, sighing.

“Maybe we can have some peace and quiet now, I'm exhausted,” he says, ushering Jensen to his cushion in the alcove. “I'm sorry that this is necessary, but better safe than sorry, right?” he apologizes while tying Jensen's damn collar to the damn leash.

Staring at the wall in the dark, Jensen waits for the other man to make a move, but nothing happens apart from clothes rustling and the bed creaking. His cushion is rather comfortable, but he only has a thin blanket, and the cold and fear make him shiver.

He thinks about poor Elias who is dead now, his body dragged through the door in order to be buried and mourned by his family. He was Jensen's first crush, two years younger, who never knew he broke his heart when he told Jensen, breathless with excitement, that he would be engaged.

He thinks about Elias' last words, addressing him as a traitor because he didn't know the truth. His friend died thinking Jensen had betrayed his family and his people. The thought breaks his heart all over again, making hot tears pool behind his eyes.

Where will he find help when even one of his best friends since childhood thinks him capable of betrayal? What will others think of him, those don't know him as well as Elias? Will he be known as Jensen Ackles the traitor when the only thing he ever wanted was to end a meaningless civil war?

He can't even blame his father; he should have anticipated the reaction to his dissent. It is his own fault he is in this situation, and he doesn't know what to do.

Noises from the bed make him tense - the creaking of the bed frame, rustling of clothes. He doesn't dare turning, so his mind has to provide images for the sounds. However, nothing prepares him for what happens.

A blanket is thrown over him, thick and heavy, then a body is sliding behind him under it.

Panic is settling in, he goes rigid and tense, his heart beating through his chest.

Long fingers are stroking through Jensen's hair. “Shhhh,” the tall man says, snuggling in closer, aligning himself with his back. Instead of what he expects to happen, he only feels the heat of the other body seeping into his cold bones, hears breathing evening out and, finally, soft snoring.

The panic and fear leave him exhausted, and he feels warm and comfy, so soon he is asleep in the arms of his captor.

The new day starts with confusion when Jensen can't remember where he is, and panic when he remembers, and there is an unmistakable, hard body part poking in his butt.

But again, none of his vividly imagined scenarios come true when the tall man stirs, smiling at him sleepy-eyed.

“Good morning,” he says, his voice rough. “Sleep well?”

Jensen nods. It is true; he slept well despite the night's emotional turmoil.

“Great. Now let's have some breakfast, I'm starving.”

After the tall man has finished his morning toilet, Jensen is allowed to perform his ablutions behind his father's privacy screen. His body, especially his back, is still painfully sore and aching, with new bruises thanks to the 'special treatment' he received. They don't know how close he was to breaking, but it wasn't the physical abuse that made him betray his father. It was the tall man and that damn drug.

He doesn't want to go there. The drug has been messing with him, leaving him with no option but to do what he was told. It was a feeling that made his skin crawl, knowing that he did things he didn't want to do.

When the other man leaves the room for breakfast, Jensen is left alone, this time without bonds.

A little later, a young soldier brings food, staring at Jensen while he eats. He stares at him like he had never seen a slave before, and that is a strange thought as there surely are slaves in the southern capital. Nevertheless, Jensen starts fidgeting under the scrutiny.

The question is unforeseeable.

“You are a bed slave?” The soldier asks.

Jensen's hand stops halfway to his mouth.

“Are you good? ... In bed?”

He can feel the heat coloring his face. How does this imbecile dare...! Oh yes, they think he is a bed slave.

“You can't say no to any order, can you?” The soldier leers at him.

His hand is sinking slowly onto the plate in his lap, the bread getting too heavy to hold any longer.

“Maybe you should ask... his Highness first if he deigns to share.”

Now that was a great answer! Jensen gives himself a pat on the back when the young man falls silent, blushing, but soon after, when he is left alone again, he just feels sick.

~~~~~~~~~~

Jared has stew for breakfast. It is delicious, but he is missing the fruits he usually eats in the capital's palace. He can understand why the northern people eat so much stew and strong broth: they need filling, hot food because it is just too cold. He needs to wear his cloak all the time in order to not freeze to death.

He'll have some fresh fruits delivered from the south though, just to have something to eat that is not cooked to death.

While eating, he ponders the problem of the slave, Peaches. He needs him alive and safe, and that is the problem.

The past night taught Jared that the slave is considered a traitor among his own people. There is a good case to believe his life may be in danger, so Jared can't let him out of his sight. He can't have him around all the time either.

'Dils.

He spent the whole morning walking through the castle, trying to decide what to repair first as there was still a lot of damage caused by the fighting during the capture. In so doing, he learned the ways, but it was exhausting, and Jared was happy about the lunch break. After, he found the problem's solution when a priest of Saramaganta asked for help to feed the orphans.

Looking at the priest kneeling before him, Jared was lost in thought, barely listening to the old man.

The worshippers of the Great Newt believed that a single touch of their god could ignite the world or extinguish the sun, thus the priests wore habits covering their bodies completely, including their hands. Novices also wore face veils until they proved they were worthy by resisting temptation.

Jared gives a low spoken order, and Qualls is heading to his room, hurrying to obey. Qualls is smart and loyal, and Jared likes him, but when only a few minutes later a hooded figure is let into the reception hall, he wonders where the soldier got a Saramaganta novice's habit so speedily.

The only thing visible from Peaches' body and face are his eyes, amazingly green under the black veil. He is sitting silently on a stool besides Jared's throne, Qualls standing behind him, all the time vigilant. If the slave made one wrong move, he would be dead before he knew it.

Jared is glad that he can rely on his guard, as the priest's request is taking up all his attention. Still, he is fascinated by the man's belief in the city's conqueror to grant his request, which makes him wonder what the true-born lord decided on that matter.

Finally, the priest is finished. Jared rises, making the veiled slave beside him flinch.

“Reverend Father,” he addresses the supplicant, “I'm sorry to hear about the poor children's sorrow; I know the innocents are a war's first and especially hard hit victims. I am also sorry to say that I can't provide funds as the Lordmaster's purse is empty, and the Crown's purse is far away.

“The Crocodilians, though, devour the greedy and bless the needy. I'll give you a bag of gold out of my pocket to feed the orphans and appeal to my soldiers for a coin of their choice. I hope there will be enough donations in order to repair the old orphanage. I'm sorry there isn't more I can do for your children.”

The old priest is silent for an instant, staring, then bows as low as his back allows. “Your Highness is most generous. I thank you on behalf of my fosterlings. I will praise your name in the mornings and pray for your soldiers in the evenings. May the Great Newt bless you manifold.”

“Thank you for your blessing, reverend Father. I'm sure the Crocodilians will be pleased when we help their little cousin's children. I'll send messengers as soon as the fundraising is finished.”

Nodding the priest's dismissal, Jared sits down. This damned throne was made for a much shorter person and his rear is starting to complain.

Beckoning Massee over, he says under his breath, “Ask around if there are craftsmen under my forces who volunteer to repair the orphanage. Make it clear that they do so by their own choice. I want the citizens to see that we are no monsters.”

Turning around to face the assembled petitioners, citizens and officers in the reception hall, he notices the slave staring at him.

“It seems that you're not a good slave, Peaches, hmm?” he says, a slight smile tugging at his lips.

Immediately, the slave's gaze drops to the floor, his head bowing. He says no word, though.

 

 

**Chapter 3**

Massee hates that damn slave with a vengeance.

He has always known his lord is soft, compared with his father, the Crown, but it is okay as it makes the subjects love him. There never was an attempt on his life: the jealous gentry wouldn't risk the public anger, and the vulgar revolutionists hope for better times once he takes the Crown.

The problem is the prince's way of dealing with slaves. He treats them as if they were people, as if they were more than the bugs they are. And this damn doe-eyed slave... he has turned his lord's head.

The prince wants the bug to follow him everywhere. He made him wear a novice's habit, and detached Qualls as a personal bodyguard. Now Massee doesn't believe in Saramaganta, because how powerful can a newt be? However, it is an unsettling thought that the little bug desecrates a sacred robe.

Of course he knows about the prince's proclivities, it is an open secret in the palace. They care little about the Designated Crown's bedfellows as long as the line of succession is clear, and Massee doesn't think that good leadership depends upon sexual orientation. Nevertheless, he wishes that the prince would fuck the damn slave into the straw tick to get him out of his system, to stop thinking with his lower brain.

Then then there is the thing that Massee can't believe - the bug was not involved with the murder attempt.

They find an unknown slave in the middle of the war, and no one thinks it is suspicious. The bug's orders could be to subvert the occupying forces, murder the Designated Crown, or to spy on the prince. If anyone asked Massee, he would say that it is possible that the bug may be an assassin in the guise of a slave.

But no one asks him, ever.

~~~~~~~~~~

The bad thing about this dream is that he knows he is dreaming but can't do a damn thing about the events.

He is still little, barely ten years old, and terrified. Yet he says to his mom, “Don't be afraid. I'll protect you.”

His mom is crying, pressing him to her bosom, trying to protect him herself.

The man with the very dark eyes is grinning at them. Later he learns that his name is Martinez, a henchman of the Great Lord Fuller, but now, staring at him with cruelly glistening eyes, he is just like a huge, man-eating Reptilian God.

Martinez' holds his boy-sized wrist in a too tight grip, the bones grinding under strong fingers. He is writhing, and pleading, and crying, but he can't get loose. All of a sudden, there is a knife in the old man's hand.

Of course he knows now that Martinez wasn't an old man, but when you're ten years old, everyone older than twenty-five or thirty is an old person. Except his mom. He still can see her face in this dream when he turns around, pale and beautiful, a bloody fingerprint and black ink on her cheek marring her soft skin.

And of course he knows now what to do to get free. He is a trained warrior and excellent swordsman; he would need all of two seconds to free himself and another two to kill Martinez. Unfortunately, in the dream he is a scared little boy, and the knife looks like a sword to his eyes, dangerously sharp and glistening.

“You know, you're a cute little boy,” Martinez says, “I can sell you for a lot of money if I make sure you remain a boy.”

Grinning, Martinez cuts off his pants, and he screams and cries, and he knows that his pillows will be wet with tears when he wakes up.

~~~~~~~~~~

Jensen is lying awake in his father's bed, a warm body snuggled up to his, long arms thrown over him.

Most of the day he had lived in confusion, starting when a young soldier entered the room.

“At the prince's command, put it on,” he says, throwing at him a black and green piece of clothing that turns out to be a novice's habit of the Great Newt's congregation. There are only a few priests in the vicinity, and Jensen's father only put up with them because they gave charity that he didn't want to pay for.

The Lordmaster is a follower of the Church of the Rapacious Wolf that says the Wolf is only satisfied when there is nothing left to devour. Unsurprisingly, the Northern upper class are members of said church because it makes avarice a virtue.

Jensen believes the Wolf shares his quarry so that his pack may live, which is why humans shouldn't be crueler than predators.

So, sitting beside the prince the whole afternoon, he is rather taken aback when a stranger, his people's enemy and conqueror, shows more sympathy and compassion than the rightful leader. And he even shows it to an insignificant slave.

It's the prince's private physician who treats Jensen's wounds in the evening; 'private' meaning in this case that the physician, Armstrong, is the only one to treat the tall man, but he is not the only man Armstrong treats as he tends to every sick or wounded person regardless of social ranks. Jensen accredits his relatively good health to the physician's competence.

The Lordmaster would have his physician executed if he dared treat anyone other than the members of the royal family.

At bedtime, Jensen prepares to sleep again on the cushion in the alcove. He doesn't know if he liked the prince cuddling him the other night or not. It was nice to feel warm and sheltered, arms around his stomach holding him tight; he just wished they weren't his captor's arms. However the prince says, “No, my back will kill me tomorrow,” and orders him to get into the bed.

When the mattress dips behind him, Jensen almost panics, steeling himself for the things that never come.

That is why he is still awake, mulling over the past days' events, but unable to make sense of them. It doesn't help that the prince, the conqueror of Jensen's home, his alleged master, is sleeping besides him, wrapped around Jensen's body, and crying in his sleep.

Finally, Jensen rolls over, facing the tall man who looks like a little boy in his sleep, his cheeks wet with tears.

Jensen is running his fingers through soft, brown hair, saying, “Shhh,” until the silent sobs stop.

He doesn't know when he fell asleep, but he knows he is in trouble when he wakes up.

The prince is standing in front of the bed, with arms crossed, scowling.

“You lied,” he says, “I don't know how you did it, but you lied.”

“I-I don't-” Jensen stutters in fear.

“Where's the Lordmaster?” The prince's voice is cold, and Jensen flinches.

“I told you. White Mountain chalet.”

“He's not there. A mounted messenger arrived in the night, stating that your master isn't anywhere near the river Numeras. You lied.”

“No! He said he'd go to the mountains.” Two guards are closing in, reaching for Jensen, so he tries to dodge. “I don't know where he is!”

He has no chance. They grab his arms, dragging him from the bed and out of the room.

“I don't know where he is!” he shouts, and then he knows where he is being dragged to. “Oh Wolf, no. Please, don't!”

He knows he is begging, but he can't help it. He had less than two days of rest, and he thought he was over it; however, if he has to go through it again, he won't survive.

The prince is following Jensen and the guards, his face dark with anger, not responding to Jensen's pleas.

His fear is confirmed – it is the torture chamber where they take him, pushing him to his knees in front of the wooden tub, and they grab his hair and shove his head under water. Steeling himself is fruitless because the cold water is taking his breath away until there's nothing left in his lungs than pain. Struggling is fruitless, his arms held, his head held; there's no way escaping the water, try as he might.

“Where's your master?” says the third guard, a blond man with cruel eyes, who looks at Jensen as if he were an insect.

Drawing the deepest breaths of his life, gasping, water running down his face, Jensen replies, “I don't know,” and again, they push his head under water, and he says, “I don't know,” a third and fifth time, and then he loses track of the times when he can draw breaths, when his lungs are burning due to lack of air, when he is thrashing around, when he is almost drowned.

He still says “I don't know,” when they stop, and he keeps saying it when they drag him back into his father's room and drop him onto the cushion. He only stops when unconsciousness takes the pain away.

~~~~~~~~~~

DJ Qualls is loyal to the Designated Crown because the prince is also loyal to his men. If he wasn't a common guard, he would like to have a talk with him because while he usually listens to both sides of a story, this slave issue seems to have unsettled the prince.

The message dispatched by Commander Penikett was clear: no Ackles in sight. The prince was obviously dissatisfied, huffing and rubbing his face with his hands. That was when Deputy Commander Massee approached him, arguing with him in a low voice.

The prince answered with more frustration and furiously flashing eyes. Then he ordered his men to interrogate the slave using torture.

DJ feels sorry for the poor slave who totally loses his cool under the torture. He has to push him too many times into the water, almost drowning him each time, and glancing at Tigerman, he can see the sympathy in his eyes. Massee, however, is enjoying this way too much.

It is obvious the slave doesn't know a thing. He already said what he knew when drugged, there is no way he lied under the influence of snake bite. DJ knows the effect because the loyalty of every member of the royal guard is tested prior to joining.

So why doesn't the prince give him any peace? And why is the deputy commander so keen on seeing the guy hurt, knowing full well the possibility that the bed slave doesn't know where his master is?

~~~~~~~~~~

It is not even noon, and Jared is already drunk.

Poor Peaches is lying on his cushion, drugged to the gills in order to let Armstrong work. He was so out of it that he reacted against any touch, but one of the welts on the slave's back split open due to his struggling and writhing, and needs stitches.

The physician works carefully, muttering under his breath about the stupidity of a certain royal.

Jared knows he is right - he was so stupid to listen to Massee's words. It is impossible to lie under the influence of snake bite, but the insinuations seemed to be logical after a night of bad dreams and a morning filled with doubt. He is not proud of what he did to the slave the other day, and the events of the morning are definitely not helping.

Peaches paid the price for his vulnerability, and Jared needs to drown his guilty conscience in brandy.

“This will definitely leave a scar,” Armstrong says, washing his hands and wiping them on a cloth. Crossing his arms, he turns to Jared who sits in an armchair, drinking straight from the pitcher.

“I'm sorry,” Jared says.

“I'm not the one you need to apologize to. What were you thinking? The general told you the slave may not know about his master's plans, and I know that you know that the commander doubted his knowledge. So what were you thinking?”

Jared sighs. “I don't know,” he says, taking another swig from the pitcher. “Massee said he was a mole, subverting the guard. I know I can't pin it on the deputy because I should have called bullshit. Instead I decided to believe him, and now Peaches is hurt and half-dead.”

After another swig, he sighs. “It's completely my fault.”

“Yes, it is. He was being on the mend, and now I have to pray to the Crocodilians that he won't catch pneumonia. Not to mention the scar he'll retain in addition to the ones from the whipping.” Armstrong sighs, sitting down on the lounge chair. “Just out of curiosity, when did your common sense start to work?”

“When I demanded his age, and he said, 'I don't know'. All the time, it was the only thing he kept on saying. He was so scared.”

The brandy has long since ceased to burn in his gorge. Soon, he will need another pitcher.

“Jared, you're like a son to me. I know you're a good man in your heart of hearts, and I pray there's still hope for you. I always told your father that torture is no means to search for the truth, maybe you learned it today.” Armstrong says, more kindly than Jared feels he deserves.

Jared nods his head.

“That's my boy. Now send Peaches to the servants' quarters to give him some rest.”

Jared shakes his head. “Can't. The Crown is coming here. He'll want to see him. I just have enough time to get sober and arrange to prepare his rooms.”

“Oh 'Dils. What are you going to do?”

“Don't know. I only can wait until his arrival in order to ask what he wants.”

The slave is stirring, moaning softly, then settling back to sleep. Both the physician and the prince are watching silently, then Armstrong says, “I'll leave you alone. He should sleep a while longer.”

Standing, he pats Jared's shoulder. “Stop drinking. It never solves any problems.”

“I know, Curtis. Thank you. For everything.”

Another pat on his shoulder. “You're a good kid, Jared. Just don't forget it.”

While Armstrong leaves the room, Jared doesn't look up, keeping his eyes on the pitcher. A fourth of the brandy is still left, and he won't empty it. Armstrong is right, drinking never solves a problem.

Putting the pitcher on a side table, he stands and walks to the alcove where the slave is sleeping.

He is gorgeous. If he weren't a slave, Jared would bed him immediately. It wouldn't solve the Ackles problem, but it would silence his traitorous dick.

There is a black blotch on Peaches' hip, showing under the pants' waistband, teasing Jared to touch, so he uses his index finger in order to shove the fabric aside. His finger's pad is rubbing over the tattoo; how he wishes he could use both hands, feeling soft skin.

It is a wolf, a slave tattoo. The Ackles collar their slaves, who are rarely tattooed. As opposed to this, the Padalecks in the south don't use collars, but tattoo the slaves' faces. Maybe Peaches used to live in the south, and his owner didn't want to mar the beautiful face so he tattooed his hip.

It doesn't matter.

Jared tucks the sleeping man in, then clears the room in search of a willing person who is able to say no, but won't.

~~~~~~~~~~

Curtis feels sorry for Jared. He is the son he never had, he conceals his true potential only to make his father proud. Unfortunately, this means that the Crown expects his son to be exactly like him, but Jared is really nothing like his father.

Indisputably, the young man is very intelligent. He can sell his soft heart as a purpose of state; when he brought the general to the point to wait for the commander's return, no one doubted that it was a good idea to not sell the poor families of Ackles' generals into slavery. As Penikett is not a proponent of slavery, Curtis hopes they would be released soon.

That is, if the Crown doesn't veto this, because he thinks showing mercy is a sign of weakness. For this very reason he regards his son as weak.

The Crown would never have spared the slave, he would have used him violently as intended.

But not Jared; he didn't touch the man.

Curtis had checked that the slave's anal region wasn't damaged and it looked like he wasn't used for some time which Curtis noticed with satisfaction.

Reclining back in his chair, he closes his eyes, enjoying a few minutes of peace. Treating so many men is never easy, even if he is working with other physicians and barbers.

Sadly, all he gets is a few minutes as there is a knock on the door. Sighing, he says, “Come in.”

A soldier is opening the door, stepping back for his messmate who is carrying an old woman bridal-style.

Curtis gestures to lay her down on the bed. “What happened?” he asks, noticing the collar around her throat.

The woman, pale and cradling her arm against her breast, doesn't answer, so Curtis looks expectantly at the soldier.

“She was cleaning the guards' quarters. Due to carelessness, she spilled some water on the rug.”

“And? No one gets hurt by simply spilling water.”

“And the DC hit her and threw her against the wall.”

“'Dils! The bastard! Why didn't a member of the guard bring her?”

“He ordered them not to touch her. Someone told me though, so I brought her.”

“You did well. Please call my assistant; I need to re-set her arm.”

Turning to the injured woman, he says smiling, “Now let's have a better look at you.”

 

Jensen feels dizzy.

Maybe he isn't awake yet. No, his eyes are open; he can see the light shining in through the windows, the curtains not drawn. According to the position of the sun, it is already late afternoon.

He rolls over, ignoring the sharp pain in his back. He watches the rays of sunshine move, illumining the wall hangings that scared him with too much blood when he was little.

So the Lordmaster is not at the White Mountain chalet like he said. Did he lie to his son when he said he would be heading to the mountains? Did he change his mind due to circumstances Jensen doesn't know? Or did he change his mind because he expected his son to betray his family?

He doesn't know why he still protects them.

That's not true. Jensen doesn't want his father dead, even though he never was a good father to his daughter and youngest son, always preferring Ragnar and Eric, both of them perfect warriors. And Jensen doesn't want his sisters-in-law and their children to wind up as slaves.

And there are his people. They share the same name, Ackles. It carries a great weight when a whole people is named after you. Or are you named after the people? Either way, he can't let them down.

This morning, when his lungs were deprived of air, he almost told the truth, but his mind was too blind with panic to provide coherent thoughts. He is ashamed how he acted, that he just lost it facing that damn washtub.

It is a good thing that his father doesn't know about his breakdown; he would remove his name from the List.

Wolf, he already did.

How could Jensen forget? He has no name, no family; there's nothing left but painful memories.

Jensen realizes he is crying only when he sees that tears are dripping down onto the wooden floor.

His father was right all along: he is such a weakling.

And of course, that is the moment the prince chooses to return.

Quickly wiping his face, Jensen kneels on the floor in an attempt to play the obedient slave.

Standing in front of Jensen, his 'master' sighs. “You seem to be better,” he says.

Keeping his gaze on the floor, Jensen nods. What else can he say?

The prince lowers himself onto the bed, right next to Jensen, propping his elbows on his knees. “Look, I'm sorry,” he begins.

And that's the last thing Jensen expects to hear.

“I really am. I don't know what I thought... why I ordered...” The prince is wringing his hands, saying nothing for a moment. “I need to keep you safe,” he continues. “I want you to wear the habit whenever you leave this room. No Ackles shall be able to recognize and harm you.”

Great, not one of Jensen's friends or subjects will be able to recognize him and help him.

The prince sighs again. “I won't allow anyone to hurt you. From now on, I'll treat you well. I'd set you free, but the Crown arrives soon, and he'll want to see you.”

The Crown? Jensen has never met the Crown, let alone anyone from the capital. His father kept him in the castle and town, and as recently as a few years ago, he was allowed to hunt in the forest. However, he is sure that this was not due to his father's concern for Jensen's well-being.

Anyway, Jensen doesn't want to meet the Crown.

He needs to get out, evade the guards in front of the doors in some way and leave the castle.

And then what? Where would he go?

 

 

**Chapter 4**

His lord still is giving that damn bug a tow.

During general audience, he sits beside the prince, wearing the habit, masking his mask with a mask.

Oh, Massee can see through the pretty face, the mask the bug puts on. He can see the net he casts with his innocent eyes and bowed head; he's the most obnoxious bug Massee ever met.

He can also see the way the prince looks at him, how his gaze, his demeanor changed during the night.

~~~~~~~~~~

They sleep separately this night. Jared can't bear the thought of coercing Peaches into sharing the bed, even though he badly needs human contact after what happened at the general audience.

The last case he has to pass judgement on is a prostitute who got raped by one of Jared's soldiers. It is a young woman, her face still bruised, gazing constantly to the ground, who demands castration of the man who is even younger than her.

Jared can't act on this request. He can't undo the horrendous crime, but he can't dispense justice in so doing either. He wants to run away.

Instead he beckons the young woman over, asking her if she will feel better when the offender loses his manhood, causing her to think about it. In the end she agrees to a pecuniary reparation instead of blood, and Jared sighs with relief.

The offender has to pay a lot of money which will give the prostitute the possibility to lead an honest life. Jared makes it quite clear that the soldier will lose his dick the next time he touches a woman without consent, and the young man looks seriously relieved.

In the night, though, Jared rolls from one side to the other, at first because he can't sleep, then because he dreams. This time he can feel the blade cutting into soft skin, feels his blood running down his legs. The pain is unbearable, and he is crying.

He awakes with a start.

Soft fingers are petting his hair; a firm body is lined up with his.

Though it is nice, Jared feels uncomfortable. “You can't talk about this ever.” he says. “No one should know what a wimp the Designated Crown is.”

“I won't tell.” The voice is soft and deep. “And since you witnessed my failure, we're even.”

“Failure? What failure?” Jared asks, puzzled.

“My... breakdown. In the torture chamber.”

“But you were being tortured! It was the second time, and I've seen braver men break way sooner.”

For a little while, there is only breathing.

“You're the strangest... slave owner I ever met.” Peaches responds eventually.

“I'm not a slave owner.” Jared informs him. “When I'm the Crown, I'll be the father of this country. When I look at my subjects, I see men and women, not freemen and slaves. At least, that's the way it should be.”

“I was born free, but I never thought slaves were just things. One day though, my father collared me and never explained why.”

“I'm sorry.” Jared replies sincerely.

“Yeah, me too.”

“Did he really do this name thing?” Jared asks.

“Delete my name from the List of Ancestors?” peaches gives a weary sigh. “Yes. He made me a non-person with no name, no family. The collar around my throat just displays it for everyone to see.”

“So you won't tell me your real name, Peaches?”

“No. You can force me if you wish, but I won't tell it voluntarily.”

They keep silent for a few moments, then Jared starts speaking.

“In the south, slaves are tattooed, usually on the face. It's not possible to manumit someone with a face tattoo because you can't remove it. When I was a boy, there was this man, the Great Lord Fuller, who fought with my father over the crown. He had me and my mother abducted in order to extort his abdication.

“They tattooed my mother, made her a slave, and they wanted to sell me, too. At the last possible moment, my father's guard saved us. I don't know what happened to her after we returned to the palace. She was marked a slave, and a slave woman can't be married to the Crown. That was when I learned about slaves' fates and vowed to myself to abolish slavery as soon as I was the Crown.”

Jared only tells half of the story, as he never told anyone all of it.

Martinez made him watch his mom being tattooed and raped. They tattooed her first because raping a slave woman was not considered a crime. When the guard came to their rescue, he was being held down by two men and Martinez was cutting away his pants, nicking his skin.

When you are ten years old, you don't know the meaning of 'rape' and 'castration'. All you know is that these men hurt your mom, that they are wielding a glistening knife and cutting your clothes away. Then the man with the dark eyes is carving your skin, your thighs where they are soft. He is gripping your penis and balls, and suddenly, there is noise, and swords, and blood that is not yours.

Jared was saved literally at the last minute, but it was too late for his mom.

His father was raging. He ordered his men to hunt down the persons responsible and enslave their families. His mother said, “Slavery is a fate worse than death,” and left the room. She left the room and never came back.

If the general wasn't hurt, Tahmoh could have it pretty easy now in the castle, but instead, it is him hunting for Villads Ackles, riding for days, and he still can't find him. He hasn't the slightest idea where the man or the members of his family could be hiding.

What will he tell his lord?

For once he'll sleep in a bed tonight. It's the administrator's of a small village who is very generously accommodating Tahmoh and his men. On the other hand, he is beating the house slave severely.

Tahmoh is watching the slave rub his arm that is already bruised in different shades of yellow and blue. “I can assure you that the Designated Crown will show his gratitude if you can tell me where the Lordmaster or his sons are,” he informs the administrator.

The administrator ducks as if he is afraid of being punished. “I am very sorry, my lord, but I don't know where the Lordmaster is. In fact, it's at least five years that he graced us with his presence.”

The slave clearing the table flinches, and Tahmoh says, “That's unfortunate. I'd like to retire now; show me to the room.”

“Yes, of course,” the sleazy administrator says, and Tahmoh's fingers are itching to bash his head in. “Cohen, show the lord to my... his room.”

The slave, Cohen, bows his head, then, grabbing a candlestick, beckons the commander to follow.

The room is decorated pretentiously which corresponds to the owner's character. But there is a nice, comfy bed, and at least Tahmoh won't see the ugly furnishing when it is dark.

“Come in,” he says to the slave, closing the door after him.

The young man is standing, his head bowed, obviously nervous.

“Earlier, you gave the impression that there was something you wanted to tell. So, now tell me. Do you know the Lordmaster's whereabouts?”

“When I was little...” the young man begins shakily, then clears his throat. “When I was little, I was close friends with the youngest son, Jensen, who told me the family history. The late Great Lady's grandfather gained wealth from smuggling. His house was situated right inside the town walls, and there was a smuggling tunnel leading outside. I think it's possible, that the Lordmaster is hiding there.”

Now that is some news that Tahmoh likes the sound of. “Do you know where it is?” he asks, his eyes shining.

Cohen hesitates to answer, so Tahmoh grips his shoulder, “I swear on the Crocodilians' scales, I'm going to take you with us. As soon as we find a blacksmith, I'll have your collar removed; you'll return to the town a freeman.”

“I don't know where it is, but I know where you can find a map.” Cohen replies.

“That's great! I need to make arrangements for an early departure. Go pack the stuff you want to take with you.”

“Yes, my lord. Thank you, my lord,” Cohen says, bowing low, then turning to go.

“Wait,” Tahmoh says. “Look, I know it's a personal matter, and you don't have to answer if you don't want to, but why are you a slave?”

Cohen looks right into his eyes. There is no trace of an obedient slave in his posture, although there is still pain visible, buried deep down in his expressive eyes. “As I already said, I was friends with Jensen Ackles. It was okay when we were boys, but when we grew up, the Lordmaster disapproved. When he found out that we saw each other secretly, he collared and sold me.”

“Little by little I get the Impression that the Lordmaster is not a kind man.”

The other man smiles wryly. “You could say worse, and it wouldn't be a lie. But Jensen... he's different, he's a good man. He doesn't deserve being treated like a rebel.”

“I'm sorry; I only have orders to capture the Lordmaster and his sons. I don't have a say in this matter.”

“Yeah, I know. I know.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Jensen is a trained warrior. Though he never liked fighting as a means of violence, he liked it for bodily fitness. He learned everything his father wanted him to learn, but he always lacked the deadly enthusiasm his brothers displayed on a daily basis.

Now that he knows who his 'master' is, he could change his native country's fate with a well-aimed stab of a dagger. However, he doubts it would lead to a better life for his people since he saw the prince's attitude towards his subjects.

Jensen's father always complained about how the Crown trampled on his legal rights to the throne, and Jensen never met anyone who could improve things, so he thought the Crown and his council were backstabbing bastards, who were bleeding the kingdom to death for their own benefit. But now he sees how the Designated Crown dispenses justice, how he decides for the benefit of a people he just conquered, and he thinks maybe the new lord is better than the old one.

He always wanted to assist his brother Ragnar as an adviser or councilman, maybe guide him to a more temperate governance and show him a more non-violent way. Hearing the servants discuss his brother's death makes his ideas void; and yes, he knows that him being a slave and his father being on the run have ruined his chances of a quiet life.

For once, Jensen is glad about the damn veil he has to wear. No one can see the tears he sheds over his brother's death; Ragnar was an asshole most of the time, but he was a great father and a more or less decent brother.

Soon, his brother Eric will be dead, as will be his father; both executed as rebels. Jensen will be dead, too, if he doesn't find a way out. As it is, he is only alive because of the damned collar; he is hiding in plain sight. However, sooner or later, someone will recognize him.

He wants his mom. He wants her to ruffle his hair and hug him. He watches the prince, tall and handsome, walking in front of him through the castle, deciding on the importance of repairs. He has to follow him through the well-known hallways and galleries, veiled and silent, a guard a few feet behind him, ready to kill him for every misstep.

Except for the physician, the prince is the only one who is kind to Jensen. The royal guards are either hostile or indifferent towards him. It is the second-in-command, though, who creeps Jensen out; he knows he would be long dead if looks could kill.

The prince is generally kind to everybody, but there are the fleeting touches and short glances that he gives only to Jensen. There is the nightly confession and sleeping in each other's arms, sharing food and comfort.

It is confusing.

But now Jensen knows who his 'master' is, and he has a name.

Jared.

~~~~~~~~~~

A few years ago, DJ Qualls senior was badly hurt in the performance of his duties. It was the Designated Crown who bestowed a small pension on him, paying for it himself. It is enough for the old man to sit on the bench in front of his little house and dance his grandchildren on his stiff knee.

This is one of the reasons why DJ Qualls junior adores the prince: he cares for his men even if they had to quit their service. And never will DJ fail in his duty to keep him safe, always watching. So he notices the change in the prince's demeanor.

They walk through the castle most of the morning, deciding on what to repair first, and the prince is constantly touching the slave - his arm, the small of his back. There are fleeting glances and little smiles which worry DJ. It's the prince's behavior when he is attracted to someone; DJ has seen it more than once, so he knows what it looks like.

He doesn't worry about his lord crushing on another man, he worries about the other man being a slave. If it was only about using the slave or having a fling, he wouldn't worry, but a full-fledged crush, that is a completely different matter.

And then there is the deputy commander.

Michael Massee always has been a good guard, but also a complete asshole. Now though, there is a gleam in his eyes, bordering on insanity, whenever he looks at the slave. It is making DJ's stomach churn.

He has the indeterminate feeling that his prowess will be needed soon.

~~~~~~~~~~

Jared just can't keep his fingers off the slave's warm body. He remembers how muscles shift under soft, pale skin, how his chest raises breathing, and wishes he could touch more. He would love nothing better than to stay in bed, touch the hairs on his arms, the plush lips, the freckles on his face, and chest, and fingers.

He is completely screwed.

And he likes it. It is a long time since he felt so elated, since his heart stuttered whenever green eyes gazed at him.

Soon, when Jared's father arrives, he will talk with Peaches and the Crown about manumission; maybe the former slave will work as Jared's servant, giving him the opportunity to solve the mystery that is Peaches. And of course he will have a different name.

They are sitting in the Lordmaster's office, which is now Jared's office, reading books, waiting for the Crown's arrival. He allowed Peaches to choose a book and was surprised that he decided on Sheppard's _The Warrior's Death_. This is nowhere near light fare, but it is one of Jared's favorite books.

It is warm in front of the fireplace. Jared is in a sturdy chair, pretending to be sunk in a genealogy of the Ackles royal family, while peeking at the other man. The slave is sitting on a cushion at his feet, unveiled, the fire casting orange shadows on his beautiful face and hair that he wears short, as is customary up here in the north.

This is something Jared imagined when he was a young boy: being snuggled up close to his consort in front of the fireplace. Then his imaginary consort changed from female to male, but he still wanted to snuggle and hug. And since he would be the Crown, he could touch and hug anybody he wanted.

Being the Designated Crown has a big downside: no one is allowed to touch him but his family, and Jared is a tactile person, always touching, gripping, and feeling with his hands and body. He could hug and snuggle with his mom and sisters when he was little, but now he is grown-up the only ones he can hug and pet are his dogs, and they are still in the capital's palace.

So his fingers are itching to touch the man before him; Jared's whole body is thrumming with need to rub against another body, and there is a certain body part that is needieer than the rest.

Just as he is wondering what Peaches' skin would taste like, the slave raises his eyes, looking at him fearlessly with a steady eye.

“I'm not afraid of you,” he says.

Jared smiles. “I don't want you to be. But I don't think you're a fearful man.”

Peaches is tilting his head. “You're a strange man.”

“You already said that.” Jared replies.

“Would it change a thing if I said it a third time?” Peaches asks, his right eyebrow arched.

Jared laughs. “Sorry, I think I can't stop being strange. Though it's debatable what 'being strange' entails, after all, you're not a common slave yourself, are you?”

Looking at the book in his hands, Peaches squirms on his cushion. Actually, it's the chaise lounge's by the window; Jared put it on the floor for the slave to sit on. The Lordmaster never provided bolsters for the few slaves he owned, the one in his bedroom being the exception, so Jared needs to be resourceful if he doesn't want Peaches to hurt when kneeling or sitting on the floor.

“I mean, you survive being tortured without batting an eye.” Jared continues. “You read Sheppard's novel which is not to everybody's taste. You could have killed me already several times, yet you didn't even try.”

After a short pause, Peaches replies, “You treat slaves as people, you never touch anyone except me, but you give everyone a smile. You gave money for the orphanage, yet your taxes are oppressive.”

“Who says the taxes are oppressive?” Jared retorts. “My father is the first Crown to tax the noblemen so that he could lower the taxes for the commoners, and as far as I know, no one's starved to death in six years.” Another pause. “Maybe... maybe we can agree on that we're both strange?”

The slave's smile is shy and small, but lights the sky beyond the crenelations and towers.

“There's no need to be afraid of me, Jensen,” Jared says reassuringly. “I won't let you get hurt again.”

With a sudden bang the office's door is opened and the Crown enters the room. Peaches flinches, staring too long at Jared's father; then he sinks onto his knees as if he just remembered how to act.

“Father,” Jared says, getting up. “I'd have come to meet you...”

“No need, Jared. I'm well capable to find my way in old man Ackles' drafty castle.” Stripping off his gloves, he looks about the room. “The interior decoration is just as tasteless as I expected. Who's this?” he says, his gaze resting coolly on the slave.

“This... this is Peaches, the Lordmaster's bed slave. We thought he could provide Information, but unfortunately, we were wrong.”

“Humph. Peaches? How appropriate.” Turning to the kneeling man, he says, “Get lost. There's no place for a slave when the Crown's talking.”

Slowly, hesitantly, Peaches rises, leaving the room with his head held high.

~~~~~~~~~~

He is a prisoner in his own home.

He wants to go to the kitchen, asking Brianna for cheese and meat, maybe some butterscotch as dessert. Instead, the guard brings pickled beets for dinner.

Jensen hates beets.

~~~~~~~~~~

The Crown paces in front of the fireplace.

“I don't understand why he's still alive.” He growls. “You're saying he doesn't know a thing about Ackles, so why didn't you execute him already?”

“But... why should I execute him?” Jared asks, dumbfounded.

“He's an Ackles!”

“He's a slave! I won't have him executed just because he's the Ackles' property.”

“We don't have Ackles, we don't have his sons.” The Crown responds. “All we have is this substitute to show the Crown's power. The Ackles people will think you're weak if you do not act, and they'll be right.”

“I'm not weak just because I don't want to kill an innocent man!” Jared retorts. “And I don't believe the Crown's power should be expressed in a slave's death.”

The Crown stops pacing, looking Jared straight into the eyes. “Jared, son, being the Crown means making decisions that you will not like, but you have to do.”

“I know that, and I have made hard decisions! I already sentenced the Ackles generals to death, is that not enough?” Jared draws himself up to his full height, having an inch on the Crown, so he can glare down on him. “I won't kill this man.”

With a lot more practice, the Crown glares back. “You will. I can make it a Crown's Order, and you know what will happen if you refuse.”

 

 

**Chapter 5**

Ruben Padalecki II is a proud king, the Crown of his people. The Ackles are his people, too, but they are a different kind, ferocious and rugged like the cold region they live in.

The whole mess with Villads is unnerving; he just wants it to be over in order to return to his young consort who told him about her pregnancy ahead of his departure. He hopes for another boy, another heir and Designated Crown, so he will be able to remove Jared from the line of succession.

Jared is a dashing young man. Ruben could be proud of him; sometimes he is, though generally speaking the boy is too soft. Some of his ideas are worth considering, but most are just plain nonsense.

With Jared's proclivity for young men and his dislike of marriage, the continuity of their bloodline is endangered. Ruben will not take it lying down.

~~~~~~~~~~

Something is going on, and it is nothing good.

Jensen is distressed; he can't see what is happening on the courtyard and doesn't dare walking out on the balcony. Opening a window wouldn't do much good, as they don't face the yard.

All he can hear is a lot of people and horses, so he assumes that the soldiers looking for his family have returned; he doesn't yet know if they were successful.

Standing in front of the balcony door, looking out and seeing only the brick wall on the courtyard's opposing side, he thinks. What will he do if they retrieve his father? He only has a few options left and he doesn't like any of them.

He hears the room door being opened, and assuming it is the Designated Crown, doesn't turn. But it is not Jared's tall and lean body pressing against his, not his hot breath ghosting over Jensen's neck.

“He's dead, you know,” the deputy commander's voice says in a conversational tone. “They killed the rebellious bastard, Ackles, and his son. Now there's no use for you, and the Crown will have you executed, and I'll follow the order cheerfully. Cutting your flesh into ribbons will be my pleasure.”

Jensen closes his eyes, holding back the tears burning behind them. When he turns, there's no one in the room but him. The room is empty, the world is empty, Jensen is empty, and he stands there with his feet on empty ground, breathing, the balcony and sun in his back, until the room door opens again, and the tall man enters, filling the emptiness.

Jared stops dead in his tracks.

“What happened?” he asks, but Jensen has no words to express the desperation, and rage, and mournfulness in his heart.

“You know,” Jared says, taking a step forward.

“How...” Jensen whispers.

“They were hidden in a house right inside the town wall. Though they had only a handful of men, they fought, and even though my guards had orders to not harm them, the son, Eric, was killed. When only the Lordmaster was left alive, he killed himself with his own sword.

“Do you want to see them? Say goodbye?” Jared offers kindly.

On Jensen's nod, Jared hands him the veil to put on, and they start walking, a guard behind them, as always.

Halfway down the stone steps, Jensen becomes aware of the fact that he is barefooted. The cold is seeping into his feet, and he can't remember when he took off his shoes. Or did he lose them?

He is curling his toes onto the stone floor that is no longer stairs, but the prayer hall's floor. He can't face his father without shoes.

The Holy Wolves are everywhere, painted on walls and ceiling, carved into doors and chairs. In a nook, the cubs that he loved the most when he was a boy are still playing, rolling around in childlike innocence and faded colors. Jensen is too preoccupied to look and stare; he is oblivious of tugging the veil from his eyes and dropping it onto the floor, and of Jared sending everyone out and closing the double doors.

He is in the middle of the room, Villads Ackles, Lordmaster of the Seal, laid out on the stone table and covered with a sheet, red stains on his chest where his life used to be.

Right next to him is Jensen's brother. Eric's face is pale, bloodless, but he is still good looking, with the rugged handsomeness of their father. Jensen knows that he has no resemblance to his brother, not in death when there was none in life, but Eric is close to his father.

Jensen is jealous. His brothers always were closer to his father than he, but even now, he feels left out. They are together, roaming the Woods of Eternity, and as always, he is alone and left behind.

Jensen has known it all along. Everything his father said about honor, everything he purported to do in favor of the family, was nothing but hot air; because in the end, he chose the coward's way out, leaving his youngest son alone. He ruined his family's reputation and his people's wealth and well-being, pursuing only his own ideas of pride and ambition.

It is now that he is seeing what his father, the Great Lord of Ackles, the Lordmaster of the Seal, truly is, and he is voicing it.

“Bastard,” he chokes out tearfully. “You selfish bastard.”

He is staining his hands red, hitting his dead father with powerful fists like he never hit his living father, but wanted to do for a long time. He is filled to the brim with anger, despair, disgust, and it is bubbling over now.

He screams. He screams at his father, screams the words he swallowed half his life. When he stops screaming, all he feels is emptiness, so he screams on and on until there is nothing left in him but tears and sobs.

His knees are buckling under the weight of grief and loneliness. He tries to steady himself gripping the sheet, but it doesn't help; he is going down, falling down, spiraling down until there are strong, steady arms holding him tight, grounding him.

DJ can hear the screams through the closed doors of the praying hall. They are full of hate and rage, and he is sorry for the slave.

He knows how some owners treat their property, has seen the slaves' dead eyes, but he can't imagine what the deceased Lordmaster did in order to provoke this reaction.

~~~~~~~~~~

Jared's chest is getting wet with tears.

He never expected a complete breakdown, but maybe it was bound to happen sooner or later, festering in the meantime until the boil was ready to break.

It feels nice to hold another man without ulterior motives, without the need to bed them; it is only about soothing and comforting another person, and if Jared's dick thinks differently, he ignores it.

Jared rubs the other man's back and strokes his hair for quite some time, when finally the sobbing subsides. Suddenly, Jensen is straightening himself, looking right in his eye with his own forest green eyes.

“I am,” he says, breathing deeply, “Jensen Ackles, youngest son of Villads Ackles, Lordmaster of the Seal. I'm a rebel's son; however I cast myself on your mercy.”

Bowing his head low, he is awaiting Jared's verdict.

Jared is stunned; this is the last thing he expected. He thought Jensen would try to lay low in the role he was thrown into. Never did he think he would play the part of a slave voluntarily, not with the wounds on his back and snake bite in his blood, and he is still ashamed of himself that he believed the deputy commander's insinuations, even for a short time. On the other hand, Jensen showing backbone doesn't surprise him at all.

“I know who you are, I've known for a while.” At Jensen's wide, surprised eyes, Jared continues, smiling, “Among all these books in your father's office, there's a family chronicle. It says the members of the Ackles family are tattooed with a wolf to show their nobility. So it wasn't hard to figure out who you were.”

Jensen's head drops even lower, waiting for the blow, and Jared can't resist the urge to cup the back of his neck. The hair is soft, kind of silky; ruffling it would be difficult, though, because of its shortness.

“I won't tell your secret,” he says. “Even if I thought you were a rebel, I wouldn't tell. This country needs to heal from the war, and executing you would be adverse to it.”

“I never rebelled like my father. I tried to stop the war,” Jensen tells the stone floor.

“That's what everyone I asked about you told me.”

“My father said I was a traitor to the family. He collared me because I berated him.”

Jared's hand on Jensen's hair flinches. “He collared you because you disagreed?” he gasps.

The other man's nod makes Jared's heart clench painfully. “Oh dear,” he sighs, wrapping his long arms around tense shoulders. “It's okay now, we'll figure it out.”

It takes a few moments, and then two hands grasp Jared's biceps, clinging to him as if Jensen's life depends on it.

~~~~~~~~~~

The evening's events were exhausting. However, Jensen can't sleep, too wired to rest peacefully, and too tired to do anything other than rolling from one side of his cushion to the other. He keeps on turning the situation over in his mind.

He believes Jared kept his secret. What he has seen from the Designated Crown's actions and decisions led him to believe that he really wants to stop the civil war and mend the country's wounds; and now that the Lordmaster and his oldest sons are dead, Jensen can disregard the deletion of his name and come into his father's inheritance as a Great Lord. If he would shed the collar and declare himself as the heir, he could join Jared in his efforts.

That is, if the Crown would accept Jensen's offer. In all likelihood, though, he would be treated as a prisoner of war or, in the worst case, executed as rebel. His tired brain is imagining all possible ways to die, and none of them are good.

He needs to talk with Jared as soon as he returns from his discussion with the council.

A quiet creaking draws his attention to the door being opened; he knows immediately that it is not Jared returning since the person is trying to sneak in. It is dark in the room, there are only embers left in the fireplace, and he can't recognize who is coming inside.

For appearances' sake, Jensen gets up from the cushion and kneels on the floor beside it. Also, he has more maneuvering room on the floor than under the blankets.

When the person stops right in front of him, Jensen can see that it is the creepy deputy commander, Mason or Massif. Massee, that's it.

“Well, bug,” he says, and Jensen ducks his head while watching his opponent as closely as possible. “It looks like your time is over. I don't know what kind of spell you cast on the Designated Crown, but it stops now. I'll just save the hangman the trouble.”

Jensen dives forward, evading the blow of the man's blade, simultaneously grabbing his ankles and pulling. With a loud crash, the man, wearing heavy armor, goes down, and immediately, Jensen launches himself on him, trying to disarm him.

A hard blow to his temple leaves him disoriented; it is only half a second, but it is enough for his adversary to strike. Jensen knows that he was hit, but he can't feel any pain yet due to the adrenaline coursing through his veins.

There is not another chance for Massee to strike with his weapon as Jensen disarms him in two seconds flat, tossing the blade across the room, so they fight hand to hand, dealing blows and taking hits. The lounge chair and a mirror are smashed to pieces when Jensen is thrown against them; in retaliation, he throws Massee against the wardrobe that stands the impact.

However, the fight takes too long. Jensen can feel the blood loss impede his movements, he is getting tired. There are only a few minor wounds and bruises all over his body, but to his side is a wound that is bleeding profusely.

So he goes for broke, bracing himself for a last attack. Jensen leaps at the deputy commander, dragging him to the ground, wrapping his fingers tightly around his throat.

Massee is thrashing, his blunt fingernails digging painfully in Jensen's forearms and wrists, but there is no way Jensen is going to lose his hold. The Wolf is with the fearless, and soon, Massee's movements become sluggish, until his hands drop, his eyes fall closed, and he lies unmoving on the floor, breathing shallowly.

Completely exhausted, Jensen drops onto the floor. Lifting his bloodied and torn tunic, he examines the wound in his side. It is deep and painful, though no vital organs seem to be injured. Bundling his tunic and pressing it onto his side, he rises with an effort. He needs to get help, preferably find Jared, since he didn't dare kill his attacker. He doesn't want to imagine the consequences if he had killed a deputy commander; it is bad enough what he has to face now, as it is.

There are no guards in front of the room doors. There is a good case to believe Massee sent them away, but this also means that Jensen has to search for someone.

Staggering on wobbly feet, he wills them to make one step after the other, supporting himself against the wall. He doesn't look back to where he only would see his blood staining the stone floor; instead, he concentrates on the stairs just behind the next corner where he can hear women chattering.

With the last of his strength, he turns the corner. There are two or three servants in the hallway, and Jensen thinks he knows them; his vision though is too blurry to be sure.

“He's not dead,” he tells them; then the Wolf is devouring him enthusiastically, rendering the world dark.

~~~~~~~~~~

“You don't know that!” Jared says loudly. He would never dare scream at his father, still less at the Crown, so he is just talking loudly.

“Neither do you. He attempted to escape and nearly killed the deputy commander. You can't doubt it.” His father replies.

“Yes, I can. There's something fishy about this story. Jen-... Peach-... he wouldn't do that.”

“Just call him what he is – a slave. Your property. And he wouldn't do what?”

“Attempt to escape. I told him I wanted to manumit him, why would he jeopardize it? And he is nobody's property. He's a freeman as soon as I can make him.”

“He will be executed. Period. When the Lordmaster and his son's bodies are buried, the slave will be executed as a rebel.”

“He's not a rebel, he never was! And you say that he's my property, so then I can do with him what I please.” Jared states calmly.

“Jared!” the father roars. “I'm the Crown! My word is law! You will do what I say.”

It is the first time since Jared was sixteen that his father roared at him. Angrily, he flashes his eyes at Ruben Padalecki II, then turns and strides out of the office with his head held high. Unfortunately, he can't bang the door as there is a door guard; so he just leaves it wide opened.

Still striding, he enters his room, banging that door at least.

There is still chaos in the room; some furniture is broken, there are shards everywhere, and blood on the bed cover and rugs.

Sighing heavily, Jared sinks into the arm chair. He had the feeling Jensen would open up a little bit but now, there is no hope left that he would ever be willing to work with Jared even for the country's sake.

Or be willing to be kissed.

Jared remembers his pale lips while he was being treated by Armstrong, still unconscious. They looked so soft, and kissable, and unattainable.

Being the Designated Crown feels like the worst fate now. If he was just a simple lord or peasant, he could woo Jensen without the requirements of his status. If Jensen wasn't the Lordmaster's son. Or if Jared was the Crown, he could... what? What could he do? What would he do?

'Dils, what a damned situation!

There's a knock on the door. “Come in,” Jared says, glad about the distraction.

A guard is entering, saluting. It is Qualls, always eager and loyal, who did a great job guarding Jensen when he still was a slave.

“Your Royal Highness,” he says with his head bowed. “I came to apologize and await my punishment.”

“Punishment? Why?” Jared enquires.

“It was my duty to guard the prisoner, and I failed.”

“You followed your deputy commander's orders.” Jared sighs. “There's no failing in following orders.”

“Yes, Highness.” Qualls replies. “But I should have known that he wasn't right in his mind.”

“Why do you think that?”

“Well, his demeanor changed even before we left for the campaign. He acted weird, especially towards the prisoner, but I couldn't put my finger on it.”

“So it was to be expected? And no one noticed but you?”

“I don't know if it was to be expected. The deputy just snapped, I think.”

Jared sighs again. “Where is the commander?”

“He's breaking the fast, Highness.”

Is it already time for breakfast? A glance out of the window confirms that it is late in the morning, and Jared didn't even notice owing to the commotion.

Heading for the dining hall, Jared passes the room where Jensen was being treated and where he is still sleeping now. Two of his men are guarding the door; another couple are inside, watching the casualty. The thought that Jared is keeping Jensen safe now makes him breathe easier.

His father still doesn't know about all these guards.

The dining hall also serves as recreation and multi-purpose room, so there is hustle and bustle all day long. There are people eating, flirting, laughing, playing cards, mending clothes, and Jared can't remember when he last ate with the commoners, guards and soldiers.

Holding a plate full of bread and meat, he sits down opposite Penikett, stopping his salute with a wave of his hand.

Both of them eat silently for a few minutes, then Jared starts talking.

“Apparently, Massee lost his mind. Qualls said he had been acting weird for some time.”

Penikett puts his knife down. “He did? 'Dils.”

“I want Armstrong to examine him closely. If he really is insane, Massee falls under his jurisdiction. If not... he's yours. I don't want to see him ever again, so my verdict couldn't be unbiased.”

Rubbing his hands over his face, Jared sighs.

“Your Highness...?” Penikett enquires.

“Tahmoh, this is a mess,” Jared says. Once again, he is glad that Penikett usually doesn't eat in the middle of the room where he can be easily watched. In the presence of his trusted adviser, he feels safe enough to let slip his cool a little.

“What do you mean, Jared? The Crown says the slave is to be executed...”

“That's what I mean! I don't want him to die. I want... He is...” Jared has no words to express what he wants or what Jensen is to him.

“He's special. I know who he is.” On Jared's astonished look, he continues smiling, “I picked up a childhood friend of Jensen Ackles who helped finding the Lordmaster. He told me some interesting things about the Ackles family, so I figured out who the 'slave' in your room was.”

“And you didn't tell the Crown?”

“No. I thought if you knew you had your reasons to not tell, and besides, there won't be a chance of saving him if the Crown finds out who he is.”

“Saving...? You don't want him to die either?” Jared asks in surprise.

“No. Concluding from what I've been told, I think Jensen Ackles was born into the wrong family. I wouldn't want him to suffer because of his father's crimes.” Leaning forward, his voice drops to a whisper. “Did you know that the members of the nobility are tattooed with a kind of crest?”

“Yes, the Ackles' one is a wolf.”

“He was about ten or eleven years old when his mother died, and his father said he needed to man up and stop being coddled. He had him tattooed to show the world what 'kind of wolf' he was. At the age of ten!”

Jared's heart clenches. The story explains a lot about Jensen's behavior in the praying hall, and he doesn't want to imagine what else young Jensen had to experience through the hands of his father.

And the Lordmaster dared to call the Crown family cold-blooded like the crocodiles they worship.

“What does General Beaver think about Jensen?” Jared asks.

Penikett hesitates. “I don't know for sure. But I think he's disgusted about the Lordmaster's governance and not happy with your father's plans to basically keep it up. If you could somehow build an alliance with the last remaining Ackles...”

“I need to talk with Beaver,” Jared says resolutely, standing up.

Once again, he is on his way through the castle. By now, he knows its corridors and hallways. It is a sturdy structure, built long before the Ackles' became the rulers of the northern part of the country, but it still is a functional building. There are only a few building alterations needed to make it more comfortable.

When Jared enters the general's room, he is sitting in a comfortable armchair, his leg propped up on a stool. A young slave girl is massaging the old man's limb.

“Sit,” Jared says, when Beaver gets ready to rise, waving the girl to leave them alone. “How's your leg?”

“Better, thank you for your concern, your Highness. That girl has healing hands.”

On Jared's tilted head and questioning look, he explains, “She was the Ackles' sons' bed slave – yes, they shared. It's disgusting, isn't it?”

“Unfortunately, I can't abolish prevalent customs overnight.” Jared says, sitting into the opposite armchair, sinking deep into the soft leather. “I mean I can abolish them, but it still takes time for the people to change their ways.”

Leaning his elbows on the armrests, steepling his fingers, he continues, “General, I know you're not a friend of slavery. What do you think of the Lordmaster's bed slave?”

There's a short break while the general collects his thoughts. “He definitely is not the Ackles' bed slave. I asked around; Ackles owned no personal slaves, he just used anybody the way he wanted. I suspect him to be a family member, left behind as a distraction.”

“But you don't know who he is? And you didn't tell the Crown?”

“Not for sure. If I could confirm my suspicion, I'd have to tell the Crown which would mean his immediate death.”

“Who do you think he is, general?”

Beaver is scrutinizing Jared for a moment, then replies, “Jensen. I think he is the Ackles' youngest son, Jensen.”

Jared's heart misses a beat. Is it still a secret when everyone knows about Jensen, figuring it out on their own?

It means in any case he has to act quickly now, before his father learns about it.

“Your Highness?” Beaver says which makes Jared look up and into earnest brown eyes. “I don't know what you're planning, but I highly suggest considering an alliance with young Ackles. He's loved and highly esteemed by his people, it would save us a lot of time and trouble if he would work with us.”

“Thank you, general. I'll consider your advice,” he says, standing. The general acknowledges him with a nod, and Jared leaves.

Now he needs to talk with just one man before he can work on making a plan.

He returns to Jensen's room, greeting the saluting guards with a nod. But what he sees entering makes him stop dead in his tracks.

 

 

**Chapter 6**

Jensen is tired bone-deep, right to the marrow.

It is not only the blood loss that is exhausting him; more than anything it is the situation.

There are guards sitting beside the bed, watching his every move, which is to be expected, considering the fact he almost killed an officer of the royal guard; and again, he is hurt, even worse than before, with bruises and cuts all over his body, a broken rib and a sprained ankle. He can't remember spraining it, but it is another reminder that he can't run away from the fate the Wolf is hurling into his face.

“You will be executed tomorrow morning,” the Crown said only recently, standing in front of the bed and looming over Jensen, pronouncing the verdict with a dark face. “Jensen Ackles, the late Lordmaster's son. Did you really think you could hide in plain sight? It's such a cowardly move, worthy of your father.”

Jensen did not reply, because there was nothing he could say. He was certain that the Crown didn't want to hear that hiding as a slave wasn't his decision, that his father has been a bastard and an asshole, but not a coward.

In a way, he is relieved that it will be over soon, he knows his fate now. If it would be of any use, he would pray that he wouldn't be allowed to enter the Woods of Eternity; he can't bear the thought of being with his father for an eternity.

His fate is a rebel's execution. He knows how horrendous the pain will be, and maybe he would consider running if it wasn't for his busted ankle. But with the blood loss and other injuries, he feels too weak to even stand at the moment; so he thinks shackling him to the bed is useless and excessive.

Opening his eyes when he hears the door being opened, he sees Jared stopping right inside the door frame, staring wide-eyed at Jensen who feels ashamed suddenly.

He doesn't want to be seen weak constantly. He wants to show his strength; lying half-naked in a bed, his body covered in bruises and bandages, makes him ashamed of himself. He knows he is blushing, but can't do anything about it.

“Who did this?” Jared roars angrily. “Who ordered for him to be fettered?”

“Uhm, the uhm, the Crown,” one of the guards says, “your Highness.”

“Get out, both of you!” Jared barks, and the guards scramble hastily to obey.

Facing this show of fierce strength and power makes Jensen feel... confused, but he knows that he would protect this man the way Jared protects him even if he is weaker than ever before right now. Maybe... maybe they could protect each other.

Jared's long legs quickly cover the short distance to the bed, where he sinks onto his knees.

“Did they hurt you?” he asks, continuing immediately, “I'm so sorry, I didn't know he came to you. You're okay?”

Jensen smiles, he can't help it. Then pain in his side makes him convulse. “I will be,” he replies.

Jared buries his face in the sheets, so his voice sounds muffled when he says, “I'm so sorry. I'm a bad future Crown if I can't control my own guards.”

This is a gift, Jensen is realizing. Jared is providing an insight into his real self, admitting a failure that is not his fault. Remembering the nights together in bed, he sees Jared's strength in admitting his weakness. He also remembers strong arms around his waist, long fingers splayed over his stomach, the raw power contained in muscles and sinews, and there was never anything weak about him.

“But it's not your fault,” Jensen says. “He has a mind of his own, and you can't control a person's thoughts. Believe me, it's a good thing, even if it leads to bad decisions.”

Jared lifts his head, looking straight at Jensen, his eyes full of regret and a pain of his own.

“What did my father want?” he asks abruptly.

Jensen is hesitating. He doesn't want to tell, but Jared will learn about it soon enough. “He told me about my execution - tomorrow.”

Jared gasps horrified. “Does he know? Who you are?”

“Yes. No one can be fooled by a stupid collar, it's ridiculous.”

“It fooled me well enough.”

Rising from his kneeling position at the bedside, he drops into a chair. First propping his elbows on his knees, he then leans back in the chair, just before propping his elbows again on his knees. “Look, I need to talk with you, on an equal footing.”

“I think it would be best then to free me,” Jensen says, clanking with the shackles.

“Oh, yes, of course. Sorry.” Blushing, Jared reaches for the key that is on the table, just out of Jensen's reach. Rattling, the shackles fall from his wrists, and it is a damn good feeling to be able to move his arms again. Sitting up in the bed, he listens closely.

“Alright; well, I want to talk from the Designated Crown to the Heir of the Seal.” Clearing his throat, Jared continues, “I'll be honest. I think you love the country and its people as much as I do. I want you to co-operate with me. Work with me. Together, we can mend the wounds the war caused.”

Jensen's heart is beating too fast. He can't believe what he is hearing. “But I'm not the Heir anymore; my father removed my name from the List of Ancestors.”

“He didn't have time to do so officially, I already checked.” Jared explains. “The scroll is untouched, your name still on it. If you agree, I can pronounce you Heir of the Seal, and you can take your rightful position as Lordmaster. We can work as equals.”

“I'd love to.” Jensen nods, smiling. “If it means that the Northerners won't be outsmarted and that I can challenge you on stupid decisions, then I agree. But how will you reason with the Crown? He'll never consent.”

“Don't worry about him,” Jared says. Something like a smile is tugging at the corners of his mouth; it crumbles down before it reveals the dimples in Jared's cheeks. “Uhm, there's another thing I need to talk about... with you... about you... I mean,” he sighs deeply, and Jensen can see how he is searching for words. “I feel... attracted... to you. I know it's completely uncalled for, and after what I did to you... you have all the right in the world to kick my ass into the Crocodilians' pit. But maybe... you could consider... giving me a chance? Please?”

Hoping to see those dimples again, Jensen says the first thing that comes to his mind. “You know that you can't have an heir with me?”

“I already have a son no one knows about, I can acknowledge him.“ Jared replies, dimples finally showing as he adds, “So is that a yes?”

For a moment, Jensen sees only Jared - the ideas he wants to bring into being; the love he has for his people, Southerners and Northerners alike; the verdicts he passed earlier; the possibilities for both of them, working together. Then he thinks about the torture he had to endure; the madness of a man who had sworn to protect his lord; the hatred in the eyes of Jared's father, the Crown.

“It's not a no,” Jensen says, smiling at the hint of dimples in Jared's face. “I'll need time, though. I don't want to rush into a relationship since it will affect the whole country. So yes, I'll give you a chance -”

Suddenly, there's Jared in his face, big hands cupping it, his mouth kissing enthusiastically Jensen's lips, then his cheeks, and nose.

“Sorry,” Jared pants out breathlessly, backing off, “yes, slowly. I can do slowly.”

 

Ruben Padalecki II is looking through the paperwork his son did during the last few days.

There's a sentence to a young guard. It's a good thing he won't be castrated since it could result in severe complications and thus losing a member of the royal guard, but the fine is definitely too high. After all, it was only a prostitute he attacked.

Ruben can't find anything about the families of the Ackles' generals. They should be sold by now, but he can't find any documents about the price and the buyers.

He has to admit that Jared's idea of the food program he initiated a few years back at home was a good one. The peasants and commons are better nourished now, thus getting less sick and working more, although It took a few years to see the effects

~~~~~~~~~~

Jared feels elated.

Jensen who will be his consort in a year or maybe sooner; who has the softest lips Jared ever kissed, and who is the most amazing and most gorgeous human being – Jensen's hideous collar is being removed while Jared is on his way to the conversation he needs to have with his father. He is really glad that it's not a face tattoo that indicates the slave status in this part of the country and that Jensen's beautiful features are not disfigured

The wolf tattoo on his hip, though, that's a completely different matter. Jared can't wait to get his fingers and tongue on it.

Attended by General Beaver and Commander Penikett, he arrives at the office. Indicating the other men to wait outside, he opens the door. “Father,” he says, closing the door behind him.

As usual, his father is sitting behind the desk, perusing documents and papers.

“Jared.” he says surprised, “I wasn't expecting you.”

“Well, it's an urgent matter I want to discuss with you.” Stopping and standing in front of the desk, Jared looks down on the older man.

“I want you to abdicate.”

“Jared! What - “ The Crown splutters.

“Ruben, I want you to abdicate.” Jared replies, calmly. “You'll confer the crown on me, and I suggest you do it of your own free will.”

“Jared, I don't understand. What are you saying?”

Leaning with both hands on the tabletop, he looks his father straight in the eyes. “I'm saying I'll be the Crown by the end of the day, or else you'll witness the shortest, but most successful revolt in recent history. I'm backed by General Beaver and Commander Penikett, which means your own guard is easily outnumbered, they won't stand a chance if you want to take a shot at fighting.”

Jared's father opens his mouth, then closes it, looking amazingly fish-like. The view gives Jared a kind of satisfaction he had never known; he can't stifle the grin stretching his lips.

He straightens himself. “I know that you don't like me much, that I'm a disappointment to you even though I always tried to live up to your expectations. Maybe the fact that I'm doing what needs to be done on behalf of the Crown gives you consolation.”

Turning to leave, he pauses, then turns back. It is just to put on a show, and it feels really good.

“By the way, the first thing the new Crown will do is to form an alliance with Jensen Ackles, the Heir of the Seal. Together, we will bring the country to unprecedented grandeur.”

Jared pauses a last time just before opening the door. The man he addresses now looks old and defeated, but he is more Jared's father than he was during the last years. “I won't cut you out of my life,” Jared says, “if you want to be in it. I'll consider your suggestions as my adviser, and I hope you'll see one day the man that I am.”

In the hallway, he takes a deep breath. Beaver looks concerned, but Penikett pats his shoulder with a proud grin on his face.

“Let me know when the scribes and notaries are finished with the paper work.” he orders, “I want them to draft the Heir of the Seal's acknowledgement after.”

“Yes, Highness,” the commander says. “If you don't mind my asking, will the Crown accept?”

“He has no choice. I won't give him any.”

He feels exhausted. He just declared war if his father won't agree to his demand, but it is the only way to keep Jensen alive and bring the country to new bloom, so he doesn't feel regret.

Standing in front of his bedroom's entrance and putting a hand onto the carved wolves on the wooden door, he thinks how weird it must have felt for Jensen to be forced to sleep in his father's room and bed. Maybe someday, they will share a bed and a life, but for now, Jared is glad that Jensen can stand to be in his presence.

Pushing open the door, he sees the gorgeous man sitting sideways on the window bench, green eyes gleaming in the sunlight.

“Hello, Highness,” Jensen says, and inappropriately, Jared's breeches get too tight.

“Uhm...” is his eloquent reply.

“You know what,” Jensen continues, his fingers unconsciously touching his collarless throat, “a collar gives you a whole new perspective on certain things; all the more when you're rid of it.”

Turning fully towards Jared, he smiles shyly.

“Come here,” he says.

 

~fin~


End file.
